To A—e B—n

Think not, TRANSCENDENT MAID! my woe Shall ever trouble thy repose; The mind no lasting pang can know, Which lets the tongue that pang disclose.

Sorrow is sacred when 'tis true, In deep concealment proudly dwells, And seems its passion to subdue, When most th' impulsive throb compels.

For HE who dares assert his grief, Who boasts the anguish he may prove, Obtains, perhaps, the wish'd relief, BUT O! THE TRAITOR DOES NOT LOVE, The LOVER is a Man afraid, Has neither grace, nor ease, nor art, Embarras'd, comfortless dimay'd, He sinks the VICTIM OF HIS HEART.

He feels his own demerits most, When he should most aspire to gain, And is at length completely lost, Because he cannot urge his pain.

But tho' he be so much subdu'd, And ev'ry scene of spirit leave As if he mourn'd for all he view'd, As if he only liv'd to grieve.

Yet let his FAIR-ONE's wrongs be told, Sudden he rushes forth to save, The Forest's King is not so bold! O! IF HE LOVES HE MUST BE BRAVE.

And if, alas! her hand should bless Some more attractive youth than HE; HE never would adore the less, But glory in his agony.

He'd see her to the altar led, And still command his struggling sigh, Nor would he let one tear be shed, He'd triumph then;—FOR THEN HE'D DIE.